


Stranger Than Fiction

by killabeez



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: hlh_shortcuts, First Time, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Duncan visits Amanda for a lunch date, and finds something he shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger Than Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dkwilliams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



> Thank you to tryfanstone, hafital, and dswdiane from the bottom of my heart for the kind and gentle last minute beta!

  
**Stranger Than Fiction**   
_for Diana_   


Duncan hadn't seen Amanda in nearly a year, and as always with Amanda, absence did indeed make the heart grow fonder. He arrived on her doorstep very much looking forward to their lunch date.

He didn't sense her, though, and when the door opened, he was greeted by a mortal woman in an elegant silk caftan. She brought one hand to her throat in a theatrical gesture when she saw him, and he knew her to be Lucy Becker, Amanda's companion.

"You must be Duncan," she said, looking him up and down. "And here I thought she was exaggerating all these years."

Duncan took her hand and kissed it without hesitation.

"A pleasure, Ms. Becker. And I can see why Amanda's been so coy about letting me meet you in person."

The woman stepped back and gestured him inside. "Lucy, please. I've heard so much about you, I feel like we're old friends." Her eyes sparkled. "And if even half of it's true, I might give the old gal a run for her money."

"This is Amanda we're talking about. I wouldn't bet on any of it being true. And I wouldn't let her hear you calling her "old" anything, if you value your life." They shared a conspiratorial smile. "Is she here?"

Lucy sighed. "I'm afraid she had to run out. An emergency." 

Duncan's smile faltered. "What kind of emergency?" 

She gave him a reassuring pat. "Darling, it's Amanda. A shoe emergency."

Lucy ushered him into the living room, making flirtatious small talk and offering him a drink. A few moments later, the telephone rang. "Forgive me," she said when she rang off, her regret plain. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to excuse me. A friend needs my help."

"Until next time, then," Duncan said, and kissed her cheek. 

When Lucy had gone, Duncan wandered around the spacious living room. It wasn't exactly what he'd pictured. A few stylish touches said Amanda to him, but otherwise the penthouse might have belonged to any hard-working female entrepreneur with a taste for the finer things. He stopped before the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, admiring their craftsmanship, tilting his head to read the titles out of habit. Though Amanda wasn't what he'd call a book-lover, he knew better than to assume she didn't have a few treasures hidden away—she'd been Rebecca's student, after all.

What pulled his gaze to that particular title, he couldn't have said. It wasn't the only paperback, nor even the only romance novel on the shelf. Right there in plain sight was _Blade of the MacLeods,_ along with half a dozen other Carolyn Marsh titles. For some reason, though, it was _A Thief and a Gentleman_ that caught his eye. Before he knew he meant to, he'd pulled the book from the shelf.

Juliette LaTour was the nom de plume printed on the spine. Duncan smirked. "Cute." Then he saw the cover illustration. Was Carolyn up to her old tricks? The hero of the tale, mirroring his own dark complexion and costumed in stylized Regency fashion, looked suspiciously familiar. Perhaps LaTour was yet another pseudonym.

Duncan opened the book to a random page and began to read.

_"How the hell did you wrangle an invite, Fitzgerald?" Collingwood asked, surprised to find the notorious miscreant among their company. Everyone knew the man's fortunes had crashed on rocky shores in Jamaica, his sugar plantation wiped out by a hurricane some years before. He was hardly worthy of Lady Elizabeth's notice._

_Fitzgerald gave a knowing grin. "Who do you think smuggled in the champagne?"_

_Just then, the lady in question ascended the steps from the garden, arm-in-arm with her dear friend Miranda Wortham, the two of them ever-so-slightly disheveled, their color scandalously elevated. Collingwood bowed, then gallantly removed a leaf from the copper coils of Elizabeth's hair. "Forgive me, Lady. It seems that nature adores you as much as I."_

_Miranda laughed, not caring in the least whether they caused a scandal. "How careless of us, Lord Collingwood. You'd better ask me to dance." She bowed coquettishly, her dark eyes sparkling. "As a diversionary tactic, of course."_

_"If you insist."_

_Fitzgerald stepped in quickly to take the Lady Elizabeth's arm, more than willing to do his part—_

Duncan frowned. The names had all been changed—to protect the not-so-innocent, he thought—but the sense of _déjà vu_ was unmistakable. 

He turned the page, half-expecting the mischievous Miranda to reveal herself as the titular "Thief." But instead the narrative took an entirely different tack.

_Collingwood did his best not to stare at the newcomer, though the man drew the eye at every turn. Tall and dark, his sultry good looks marked him as a rarity in this society, and though his natural grace served him well, he moved with the purposeful, unmistakable efficiency of a fighter. The Scot was no one special. No title, and no particular fortune, but in this civilized company, that pure essence of manhood raised a thrill of excitement in Collingwood's veins._

Duncan blinked. What kind of book was this, anyway?

He flipped it over, scanning the back cover. _2002 Rainbow Award Winner!_ it proudly proclaimed. _Lambda Literary Award for Gay Romance. 2002 Member Choice Awards, Best Gay Historical Romance. 300,000 copies sold!_

"Three hundred—!"

Duncan broke off. Amanda's buzz broke over him like a dash of ice water. He fumbled the book, the blood rushing to his face—but embarrassment lost out to irritation. How long had she known about this?

"Duncan! You made it. I hope you haven't been waiting long." She breezed into the room on a wave of clicking heels and Chanel No. 5.

He muttered, "Long enough."

She kissed him on the cheek. "I'm sorry, darling, but it couldn't be helped. Lucy said she'd—" Amanda, amidst unloading her packages onto the couch, finally noticed his expression. She stopped. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Grim, he held up the book. "Something you want to tell me?"

Her eyes went to the cover, then widened. "You didn't." 

"What do you think."

"Oh, sweetheart." She came over and took it out of his hand, looking at it with regret. Her expression was genuinely repentant for a moment, then she gave a resigned sigh, and shrugged. "Well, I suppose if you're going to go snooping around people's things—"

Duncan's ire sparked. "You're kidding. _I'm_ the one getting the lecture about respecting boundaries?"

"Why are you mad at me? I didn't write it."

"Maybe not, but you had a hand in it."

"Duncan, I swear, I really didn't." She touched his arm in an attempt to soothe. "Look, what are you so mad about? It's not like he used your real name."

Duncan's brows drew together. "He?"

Her eyes widened. _Caught!_ that expression said. She grabbed his hand and turned it over to look at his watch, ducking his glare. "Look at the time! We should go."

She tugged him toward the door, but Duncan planted his feet and didn't budge. "Uh uh. You're not going anywhere."

She made a face. "You can be a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

"I wouldn't know," he said pointedly. "I didn't get that far."

Her shoulders slumped. "He'll kill me if he finds out I told you."

"Too bad. Talk."

"Do you really need me to say it?"

"Yes, I really need you to—" He stopped. It couldn't be. But of course, it had to be. "Methos."

Amanda spread her hands in a _duh, of course Methos, where have you been?_ gesture.

Duncan barked a short laugh. But Amanda wasn't joking. "You're serious."

"Look, you can't tell him how you found out. He really will kill me."

"This is some kind of bad joke. Are you filming me? Am I being filmed?" His eyes narrowed. "Did Joe put you up to this?" The thought of Joe knowing about this raised his blood pressure three or four notches. "How explicit is this thing, anyway?" He opened the book again, but before he could answer his own question, Amanda snatched it away and snapped it closed. "Guess that answers that."

She huffed an exasperated breath. "Calm down, will you? You're overreacting. It's _fiction,_ MacLeod. As in, not real." Amanda pouted then, giving every impression that she was genuinely hurt. "Are you going to let it ruin our lunch? I haven't seen you in ages, and I was really looking forward to spending some time together."

And of course, she was right. For once, Amanda wasn't to blame, and it wasn't fair to take it out on her. He was annoyed that she'd kept it from him, but what really bothered him was the idea that she'd _read_ it. Along with hundreds of thousands of other people, apparently. That, and knowing that somewhere, Methos and his perverse sense of humor were laughing themselves all the way to the bank.

Okay, what really bothered him was that somewhere out there, Methos was laughing at _him._ As usual.

Amanda curled a hand around his arm and tossed the book onto the divan. She tilted her head at him, offering a winning smile. "Come on, let's go have a good time and forget this thing even exists. What do you say?"

She kissed him, and it did make him feel a little better. "Yeah," he agreed. "Let's do that."

He let her guide him toward the door and didn't look back, denying the strange reluctance he felt at leaving the book behind.

* * *

Duncan tried his best to follow Amanda's advice. He did. It wasn't as though he could burn every copy of the book in existence, so forgetting about it was the smartest thing to do.

Back in Portland, he had plenty to occupy his attention. Several months before, he had launched a private-equity investment firm to buy conventional farmland and convert it to certified organic cultivation. The company had begun to take off, and he spent the next weeks traveling the bucolic Oregon countryside, surveying potential farms, meeting with investors, and consulting with his managing partners to develop a two-year plan. He kept himself so busy, in fact, that Joe Dawson left three messages for him before he found the time to return the man's call.

"Sorry, Joe. It's been back-to-back lately. I'll be in tonight, I promise."

"No worries, man. I get it. But you gotta make time to relax now and then. You know what they say about all work and no play."

"I hear you."

"The old guy misses you, too."

That was a strange thing for Joe to say. Before Duncan could think better of it, he muttered, "Yeah, I'm sure he does."

Joe's pause lasted a fraction of a second too long. "Something going on with you two I should know about?" 

Duncan closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Not last time I checked. Listen, Joe, I gotta go. Catch you later."

"Later, Mac. Take it easy."

Duncan ended the call. He sat staring at the phone for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. 

It wasn't something he planned. He was, in fact, very deliberately not thinking about Methos, or the stupid book, or anything other than walking home, changing into something more casual, and maybe pouring himself a drink. But several blocks further on, he walked past the bookstore—and when he reached the entrance at the corner of the block, he went in. 

He told himself that odds were they wouldn't have _A Thief and a Gentleman_ in stock. It was years old, after all. But there it sat in the section labeled Alternative Romance, still in bloody print. A warm, uncomfortable flush started in Duncan's belly and spread to the back of his neck. How popular was this thing, anyway?

He reached for it, and that's when his eyes went to the New Releases, where sat—on the top shelf, no less—not one but six copies of a brand new novel by "Juliette LaTour." In hardback. The thick-papered and well-bound sort, that publishing companies only paid for when they knew they were going to sell a lot of them. The title was _Warring Hearts,_ and its cover bore a lurid but arresting image of a strapping lad in 18th Century Highland battle dress locked in passionate embrace with a disheveled British officer.

"Oh, for pity's sake. You've got to be kidding me."

The Highlander bore a striking resemblance to the guy he saw in the mirror every morning.

Duncan grabbed all six copies with some idea of a bonfire out back in the alley, but then realized he still had to get them past the cashier. Reluctantly, he put five back. He shifted several other books down the shelf to hide the damning cover art, then headed for the register. On the way, he grabbed a magazine on interior design and a book about travel in South America from the bargain table, tucking the novel between them.

His clever subterfuge failed to distract the cashier. "Oh, I love this one," she exclaimed—rather more loudly than necessary, Duncan felt—flipping _Warring Hearts_ over to gaze avidly at the front cover. "I hope she comes out with the next one soon."

Duncan had no idea what to say to that. "Yeah, me, too," he got out. As the cashier gave back his credit card, she glanced up, and blinked. She colored, and Duncan couldn't look directly at her, his own face hot. She put the books into a bag and pushed it toward him without glancing at it. 

"Have a nice day," she stammered. "Thanks for coming in."

"You're welcome." He grabbed his purchases and got out of there. Why did he have to use his credit card?

Duncan fled home, the book burning a hole in the bag. He ignored it as long as he could—long enough to pace the length of his living room and back—then fished the thing out and marched over to the couch.

* * *

The story began during the months leading up to Culloden. If Duncan hadn't known who wrote it, he'd have been surprised at the relative accuracy of the historical references. As it was, he skimmed over the scene-setting and went straight to the character description.

_Tristan MacLaren embodied the stark beauty of the land that had created him. His coarse yet vivid appeal lay in his dark, flashing eyes, sensual lips, and broad, capable hands, equally suited to wielding a sword or expressing the passion in his wild heart._

Duncan rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on." It was _Blade of the MacLeods_ all over again. He flipped forward several pages.

_Matthews did his best to appear unmoved, though he would be a liar if he claimed the Highlander's charisma didn't affect him. "Tristan MacLaren of the Clan MacLaren," he said._

_"Aye, and what of it?" the captured Scot demanded._

_"My home is your home."_

Duncan blinked. 

_Mi casa es su casa._

He turned to the back cover, reading the blurb again. _The last thing Robert Matthews expected was to find his heart's true desire in the dark eyes of an enemy Scot..._

"Son of a bitch," Duncan murmured. What was Methos playing at? He felt hot all over, a dull throb building at his temples and his heart thudding too loudly in his chest. He stared at the book for a moment, then flipped back to the beginning.

This time, he skipped nothing.

Hours later, Duncan closed the book. The sun had long since set, but he hadn't noticed. A meteor could have struck the building across the street and he wouldn't have noticed.

He felt beaten up, detached from his body and yet deadly calm, the way he got at the beginning of a fight. When he moved, his shorts clung to him, slightly sticky. At some point while he was reading, he'd been aroused enough to do that; he was still half-hard, his balls heavy with it. The many and varied erotic encounters enjoyed by the book's protagonists had been startlingly explicit and, he had to admit, effective. 

This had to be some kind of elaborate joke, or scheme, or—Duncan didn't know what. No matter how he tried to explain it, he came up empty-handed. Methos's sense of humor could be perverse and twisted at times, but Duncan didn't begin to fathom his reasons for something like this.

He glanced at the clock. It was Thursday, not yet seven. Odds were, Methos would be on his way to Joe's place before long. The three of them often gathered there on Thursdays for open mic night.

For the first time since Methos had turned up months ago, it occurred to Duncan to question why, exactly, Methos had come to Portland. _Of all the gin joints in all the world,_ Joe had said that day, and they'd slipped so easily into the pattern they'd set long ago in Seacouver, Duncan hadn't questioned it. If he had, he might have assumed Methos was there for Joe. Maybe that was true. For all he knew, it had always been true. What did he know of Methos's reasons for anything he did?

Duncan tossed the book to the table. If this was a joke, he wasn't laughing, and whatever Methos's game, it had to stop.

He grabbed his coat.

* * *

Normally, he'd feel guilty for putting Methos's back up by visiting unannounced, but tonight, Duncan had to admit he got a perverse satisfaction out of it.

"Mac! What are you doing here? Trying to spook the neighbors?"

"Nah," Duncan answered. "Just you. Were you expecting someone else?"

Methos shifted, revealing the sword he'd held behind the door. "I wasn't expecting company, no." He took in MacLeod's expression, and frowned. "What's this about?"

Duncan gave the sword a pointed glance. "We need to talk. Can I come in?"

After a moment's hesitation, Methos stepped back and held the door open. "I thought I'd see you at Joe's."

"Maybe later." Duncan looked around. Methos's apartment was in a refurbished warehouse in the fashionable part of the city, its entrance a nondescript door set in a brick wall next door to a coffee shop. The last time he'd seen the inside of the place was the day Methos moved in. Now, the eclectic collection of art, furniture, and curious objects had transformed the warehouse loft into a home—one as quirky yet eloquent as its owner. "I like what you've done with the place."

"Thanks." Methos shut the door. Other than the glow from a reading lamp and the moon shining in through the skylights, the apartment fell into shadow. 

Duncan breathed deep, catching the faint scent of cardamom. He didn't look at Methos. "You gonna put that away or what?"

After a hesitation that lasted a moment too long, Methos sheathed the sword and put it back in its stand by the door.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Methos asked, turning on another lamp. "Someone I should know about?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Duncan said. "An old friend of yours."

"Really. Does this friend have a name?"

Duncan turned to look at him, watching for his reaction. "She does, as a matter of fact. Juliette LaTour."

Methos was good, Duncan had to give him that. He barely flinched. "Ah."

The confession came as a blow, and Duncan jerked as if Methos had kicked him. His brows lowered. "'Ah.' Is that all you have to say?"

Methos raised his hands, placating. "Now, Mac, calm down."

His words had the opposite effect. "Why does everyone keep telling me to calm down?"

"Everyone? Who's everyone?" Methos's eyes narrowed. "She didn't."

Duncan advanced on him. "Don't change the subject."

Methos took a step backward. "Wouldn't dream of it!"

"Good." They stared at each other for a minute, but try as he might, Duncan could not put a name to Methos's expression. Whatever was going on behind those olivine eyes, he could no more discern than he could have guessed the number of fish in the sea. "So?" he demanded.

"So?" Methos echoed. 

Duncan scowled. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"You're not the first to say so."

"Yeah, I'll bet." He took a step closer, pulling the book out of his coat and holding it up in silent accusation. "Talk, Methos."

"What do you want me to say?" Methos glanced at the book, then back again. At the look on Duncan's face, he spread his hands, innocence incarnate. "I needed a legitimate source of income."

"You can't be serious."

"It was easy cash, all right? They even paid me an advance."

Duncan stared at him in disbelief. He gestured with the book and its indisputable proof of Methos's elaborate joke at his expense. "Easy cash? Are you out of your mind?"

Methos grimaced. "Maybe?" His voice rose, defensive. "Look, you weren't supposed to know about it. How could you? It's not like I used your real name!"

His words echoed in the room, damning them both—Methos by clear admission, and Duncan by implication. Even though Methos had already confessed, Duncan struggled to absorb what Methos was telling him. He still half-expected the man to burst out laughing.

Methos, though, seemed genuinely upset. He strode past so that Duncan could no longer see his face. "How'd you find out, anyway?"

"That's not the point."

"So, what is the point?"

"I don't know, you tell me!"

Methos looked at him. "There's nothing I can say that won't make this worse, is there?"

"Probably not." Duncan wanted to stay pissed. That would have been easier. But a part of him wanted to believe there was more to it than some sort of twisted, mean-spirited prank. "Try me."

Methos ran a hand through his hair. It was longer than it had been in a while, making him look younger, more like the grad student he'd been when they'd first met. "Would you believe I got carried away?"

Despite himself, Duncan felt his righteous anger slipping. 

"I'm listening."

Methos exhaled, a long sigh. "I don't even know how it happened. Amanda sent me an autographed copy of that _Blade of the MacLeods_ book as a joke, must be ten years ago, now. She, I don't know, she goaded me into it! And then one thing led to another."

Duncan stared at him; Methos stared back, as if that were some kind of explanation. "You realize that makes no sense," Duncan told him.

"Yes, I realize that!"

"Well, don't get mad at me!"

"I'm not!"

Duncan realized he was still holding the book up like a weapon. He glanced at it; the lurid cover illustration made the blood rise to his cheeks, and he tossed it onto a side table as if it were hot to the touch.

Methos's lips quirked. "Did you actually pay money for that?" he asked. Some twisted sense of humor prompted him to add, "Well, you're not the first."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" At Methos's guileless expression, Duncan's temper flared anew. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Trust me," Methos said. "You don't want to know."

But Duncan _did_ want to know. Confronted with Methos's inscrutable gaze and confusing mixed messages, he suddenly wanted it very much.

He'd advanced, and Methos had given ground until Duncan had him backed up against the kitchen counter. Methos was trying to piss him off, he realized. Why? To throw him off the scent?

His eyes narrowed. "It won't work," he said.

"What won't work?" But underneath the act, Methos began to look nervous.

"Distracting me."

"Look, MacLeod—"

"Oh, no. Don't 'MacLeod' me." Duncan stepped into his space, nostrils flaring. "I didn't just pay money for it. I read it."

Methos's eyes widened. "You—"

Duncan nodded. "All of it. Every last pornographic page. And I have one question."

"Can I plead the fifth?"

"Not a chance."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Duncan leaned close. "Was it just a fantasy? Or is that really how you think of me?"

Out of plank, Methos swallowed. "And if I said it was both?" 

Methos's color had risen. Was it Duncan's imagination, or did he sound a little breathless? Arousal bloomed in the pit of Duncan's belly as if it had been lying dormant for years. His heart beat a fierce rhythm against his chest.

"Well, then, I'd say we'd wasted a lot of time, wouldn't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Methos met his eyes. He drew a deep breath, then let it out. "Does seem that way," he admitted at last.

They held one another's gaze. The heat between them threatened to ignite. Duncan was the first to break the standoff; he dared to draw his fingertips down the length of Methos's throat, realizing he'd wanted to do that for as long as they'd known each other. 

"Mac?"

"Mm."

"Is this going where I think it's going?"

"I certainly hope so." He spread his feet and rested his hands against Methos's waist, not forcing the issue, just holding him steady. Methos's Adam's apple moved up and down. Duncan leaned in and breathed in his scent, closing his eyes. "I do have one condition, though."

"What's that?"

Duncan rested his lips at last in the warm space below Methos's ear. He nibbled there, savoring the rabbit-fast race of the other man's pulse. Then he grinned and bit down, Methos's yelp of protest music to his ears. "Guess."

* * *

To the great disappointment of LaTour's many devoted fans, the sequel to _Warring Hearts_ was never published.

END


End file.
